A Regimental Affair mh-3

by Allan Mallinson

  He enunciated the purposes for which marriage was ordained, and no one alleged or declared any impediment, when called upon to do so, why Hervey and Henrietta should not be joined together. Bride and groom answered clearly and distinctly when the dean asked of them both if they would honour their obligations to each other. Each of them spoke clearly and distinctly as they gave their troth to each other, Henrietta’s right hand in Hervey’s and then Hervey’s in Henrietta’s. And Hervey put the ring on the fourth finger of Henrietta’s left hand, as the Prayer Book required, and vowed with it to worship her with his body, and to endow her with all his worldly goods. They knelt, and the dean asked God’s blessing on them both, commanded that those whom God hath joined should no man put asunder, and then pronounced them man and wife together. And when Hervey lifted Henrietta’s veil, he marvelled equally at his fortune that this woman had indeed consented to be his wife.

  There followed psalm one hundred and twenty-eight, Beati omnes – ‘. . . O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be’ – and the Lord’s Prayer, and others for general blessings and for fruitfulness in the procreation of children. Then all were bidden to sit to hear the homily on the duties of Man and Wife.

  ‘I do hope this is not to be a long affair,’ whispered the marquess audibly to Lady Bath. ‘These Oxford fellows can be mightily pleased with the sound of their own voice.’

  John Keble, as he rose and moved to the middle of the extemporary chancel, gave no clue as to how long he would detain his congregation, nor, indeed, how engagingly. ‘Dearly beloved, in the preface to the form of solemnization of matrimony, the persons to be married are bidden to come into the body of the church with their friends and neighbours.’

  The words, his voice, and his sublime aspect at once commanded unusual attention in a congregation enlivened by the host’s hospitality.

  ‘And this, Matthew Hervey and, now, Henrietta Hervey have done, for you indeed are their friends and neighbours. We need not dwell on the reasons for requiring that they should not come privily, save that those whom they love best, and who love them best, should bear witness to the mutual love that these two persons have for each other. Love, the last best gift of Heaven.’ He paused. ‘Above all, they witness before God to this love, this gift of Heaven, this heavenly grace, and they and we ask God’s blessing that, as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so might they. Sustained by the prayers and society of you, their friends and neighbours, and by the grace of God, Matthew and Henrietta may hope fervently that they might live as Isaac and Rebecca, and that they might follow Christ’s commandment to love one another. Love, the last best gift of Heaven. Love, gentle, holy, pure. Amen.’

  John Keble turned and knelt before the altar. Hervey took Henrietta’s hand. Neither bride nor groom could possibly know the range of sentiment for them in that chapel-room. For the most part it was that of friends and neighbours, young and old, who had watched or somehow shared their progress to adulthood and their consent now to be man and wife. In Hervey’s case, although his society was limited in comparison with Henrietta’s, the range of acquaintances which his profession admitted was much the greater. There were some in that congregation, like Mrs Strange, with feelings of obligation for a past kindness out of the run of the ordinary; some, like Private Johnson, would owe that daily life was infinitely the better for the command of their captain; one or two might even claim their very being here, rather than in the grave, was because of him; and there were some (perhaps no more than a dozen) who hardly knew either of them – officers of the Sixth happy to accept the customary invitation to see a fellow wed, including his commanding officer, whose duty it was to be there. It was impossible that John Keble’s address should touch each as strongly; but touch each in some way it did, if for nothing but its singular brevity and clarity – as well, perhaps, as for its challenge. The silence between its ending and the dean’s blessing and dismissal was memorable.

  The service ended, the little orchestra began to play the ‘Triumphing Dance’ from Dido and Aeneas – the bride’s choice both for its purport and liveliness – and the congregation, led by Captain Matthew and Lady Henrietta Hervey, walked from the chapel-room between a file of carried sabres and into the great hall. There the band of the 6th Light Dragoons, high in the minstrels’ gallery, struck up the regiment’s quick march, ‘Young May Moon’, to the spontaneous applause of all the guests, who now mingled freely, or at least unseparated, to enjoy their host’s generosity once more. And only now did Henrietta feel an inclination to rue her idea of imitating all Princess Charlotte’s arrangements, for she realized how very detained they would be by so many well-wishers. Not that Hervey imagined any such feeling on his wife’s part. How might he, yet? He could only submit to duty once more, content with the thought that for Henrietta this must be the happiest time of the whole day.

  It would be two hours and more before he came at last to understand the truth, the whole truth, of John Keble’s words of the day before.

  It was indeed a glorious May moon that lit the guests’ way home that night – by foot, horse and carriage alike – and which shone a full three hours on Hervey and Henrietta in their marriage bed. And it was after midday that Hervey came down the great staircase of Longleat House, for the first time in his life. His slight feeling of awkwardness in his new status was made worse by the obvious cause of the lateness of the descent – Henrietta would be a full fifteen minutes behind him. He was doubly surprised, therefore, when the butler greeted him formally but with polite indifference, and astonished when he announced that Daniel Coates wished to see him as soon as might be possible.

  Hervey sighed. On this, of all mornings, might not Daniel Coates allow him to be his own man – for right or for wrong? ‘He surely does not expect me to ride to Upton Scudamore?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. He is here, waiting,’ replied the butler.

  ‘In heaven’s name, for how long?’

  The butler’s voice changed just a point to explain the propriety of Coates’s request. ‘Mr Coates has not been home this last evening, sir. At about one o’clock this morning – after you had retired, sir,’ (Hervey coloured a little) ‘he came up to me in – may I say, sir – a degree of agitation, and asked if I knew what were your and her ladyship’s plans in the coming days. I replied that I was not privy to them, sir. Mr Coates then said that he had to go to Bristol for several days in his magisterial capacity, and that he could not risk your leaving without his speaking with you.’

  Hervey knew he would see him at once – of course he would. But he wanted to know all there was of it beforehand. ‘Did you not offer him paper, Thurlow?’

  ‘Indeed I did, sir, but Mr Coates said he could not possibly commit his business to paper.’

  Ten minutes later, when they met together in the library, Coates bore an expression of great anxiety which was not helped by his evident lack of sleep.

  ‘My dear Dan, whatever is the matter?’ said Hervey, now genuinely concerned for the man who was in both senses his oldest friend.

  Daniel Coates shook his head several times. ‘Your commanding officer – Lord Towcester . . .’

  Hervey looked puzzled. ‘Yes, Dan? You met him last night?’

  ‘Not exactly; not as such,’ he replied, shaking his head again.

  ‘Well, what is it then?’ He laid a hand on Coates’s forearm.

  ‘He’s not . . . not . . . not right!’

  By now Hervey was becoming exasperated. ‘Dan, to be frank, he’s to hardly anyone’s liking in the Sixth. And it’s only too clear to me why! As, doubtless, it was to you.’

  ‘No. It’s not just that. I’ve met ’im before.’

  Hervey was about to try allaying what he judged to be a veteran’s anxiety, when the old soldier rallied. ‘In Holland. In ’99, with the Duke of York and Abercromby. I was an orderly dragoon at General Poole’s headquarters.’

  Hervey began to listen intently, for he knew that tone well enough.

  ‘We’d landed on the
Helder towards the end of August, and it was muddle as usual. But a few weeks later we were giving the French a trouncing at last, on the coast, at Bergen. There was a hell of a long skirmish with the French ’ussars, all along the dunes for half a dozen miles – pouring rain an’ all. It was mainly the Fifteenth and Eighteenth, but then the Twenty-third was thrown in, new-come from England. They went at it well enough, but then the French counter-attacked good and proper out of Egmont, and rolled over them like they wasn’t there.’

  Hervey knew the battle well: a good light dragoon action, he had always understood. And Coates had spoken of it before. But now it was as if he were still there, so intent was his look. ‘Go on, Dan.’

  ‘Lord Towcester – well, he wasn’t Lord Towcester then: he was Lord Charles Keys, wasn’t he – Lord Towcester had a troop of the Twenty-third and he upped and left them – galloped off the field as if the hounds of hell were after him! In full view of his brigadier!’

  Hervey’s mouth fell open. ‘How in heaven’s name could he become a captain, then, let alone a lieutenant colonel?’

  Coates didn’t answer directly. ‘The Eighteenth charged through and through – young Stewart at their head, him that is Lord Londonderry now, privy councillor an’ all. “That’s the way cavalry should be handled,” called General Poole. “And as for that officer who bolted I’ll have his name disgraced for ever!” ’

  ‘But it seems he didn’t,’ sighed Hervey.

  ‘That night, I was outside the general’s office waiting on him to take his despatch to Lord Abercromby’s headquarters. Just a curtain for a door, it had. Lord Towcester was brought in under arrest, and I heard everything. The general’d been appalled when he’d learned who the officer was, because he knew his father as a very old friend. He’d wanted to have Lord Towcester court-martialled at first, but said he couldn’t bear to think of the pain it would bring so noble a man as was his father. He made him swear upon his honour to resign his commission at once and never again to seek one. And then Lord Towcester went out into the night, and no one ever saw him again.’

  ‘But this was all done in front of witnesses, was it not?’ pressed Hervey, disbelieving that such a promise could not have been enforced, let alone dishonoured. ‘And the whole brigade saw the flight too?’

  ‘The only man that I know of who would have heard the exchange was the brigade major, but he died that winter. And General Poole went peacefully in his bed many years ago now. He called me in to take the despatch soon afterwards and asked me if I’d heard what’d passed. I said I had, and the general said he believed he might well live to rue the day he had been so weak-minded about it. I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday, for a general would never share such a thought with a corporal if he were not truly dismayed.’

  Hervey could not but agree. ‘But what about those who saw him bolt?’

  ‘That I can’t say,’ said Coates, shaking his head. ‘It was nigh on twenty years ago. Who remembers anything when so much has happened in between? And who could say anything against their betters anyway? I don’t even know if Stewart himself saw it.’

  What a dismal thing to hear on any morning, thought Hervey. ‘So I have a commanding officer who is not merely disliked for his manner by all, he was – and therefore almost certainly still is – a coward. And, what’s worse, his word counts for nothing.’

  ‘Ay, Matthew,’ agreed Coates, shaking his head gravely. ‘You see now why I was in such haste to warn you of it. A regiment commanded by a knave like him will be a damned pitiable place. He’d give you the point from behind soon as look at you. Stay on guard, Matthew! Stay on guard!’

  PART TWO

  SKIRMISHERS OUT

  CHAPTER SIX

  FROM WHOM NO SECRETS

  ARE HID

  Hounslow, six weeks later

  ‘His lordship is most insistent on it, Captain Hervey. He wishes that you will take command of your troop at once. The major general’s inspection is at the end of the month.’ The adjutant’s tone was emphatic.

  Hervey could not complain. These were the petty exigencies of the service after all. But why had July been declared the grass month only weeks before, and officers promised leave? He accepted Lord Towcester’s wish as if it were an order – that went without saying – but it seemed not unreasonable for the adjutant to say why the change had been necessary. Did the annual inspection come as such a surprise?

  The adjutant clearly believed he had a fight on his hands. ‘If you wish to protest any more then you shall have to put it in writing to his lordship,’ he said, defiantly.

  ‘But I have not protested in the least! I have merely asked to be told the reason for the change. Things will go all the easier with the troop if they know why it is.’

  ‘I do not think his lordship would hold with that sentiment. An order is given and it is a subordinate’s duty to obey!’

  Hervey sighed to himself. Only an imbecile would think that this truism was the last word on the command of men. ‘Dauntsey, do not mistake me. I say again that I have not the slightest wish to question the order. But I have always observed that our men go the better for it if they are told as much as possible.’

  ‘Our’ came properly enough, for they both wore the same badge.

  The adjutant sneered. ‘In my former regiment I pride myself that we were greatly more punctilious in such matters, Captain Hervey. You shall have to put your objections in writing to the lieutenant colonel. He would not countenance it if this conversation continued.’

  ‘And I say for a third time that I make no objection!’ Hervey managed to keep his voice quite even, to begin with, but then his patience failed him. ‘See here, Dauntsey, if you go blustering to the troop captains in this way you will soon have their resentment, and it is not a good thing for a commanding officer to have an adjutant who cannot manage the captains.’

  The adjutant made to protest.

  ‘I am not finished, if you please, Mr Dauntsey. When you speak, it is as if the lieutenant colonel himself were speaking, and it is as well that you remember that privilege, for if you use words that the colonel would not have wished, then your authority will be shot through once and for all.’

  The adjutant wore a look like thunder.

  ‘Very well, then, Dauntsey. I shall return to Longleat now, and I shall be back, as his lordship wishes, in seven days’ time. Be pleased to give my respects to him when he returns.’

  Hervey left the orderly room and walked to the officers’ mess, fulminating at the adjutant’s disdain and presumption. He was angry at having been driven to speak so sharply, but Dauntsey had had it coming to him. The fellow had been deuced rude on their first meeting two months ago, and since his own arrival yesterday – to do no more than make a few domestic arrangements – Dauntsey had scarce had a civil word for him.

  It was not good, though, to be on poor terms with the adjutant. For although Hervey was confident enough of keeping the likes of Dauntsey on his guard, a mean-minded adjutant could always exact his vengeance in other ways: on the troop itself, perhaps. And in Hervey’s experience, when that went on for some time, the men could turn their resentment towards their captain rather than their true persecutor. An unpropitious start then, but better, perhaps, than to let things run on and have a bigger quarrel later. Well, it was done now, said Hervey to himself. Better to get his things into the chaise and be away.

  How satisfying it was to have his own chaise. The stage was a mean alternative, even though he could now take an inside seat without having to worry about the cost. Serjeant Armstrong had called it swanking when first he had seen the carriage, with the Bath arms and all on the sides, and Hervey had been quick to admit to its provenance – and its temporary proprietorship. But it would still give him no little satisfaction to leave the barracks in it at once, beholden not even to the mess drag to get him to the staging inn.

  ‘Hallo! You are off already?’ said Captain Strickland, coming on the rig outside the mess a half-hour later.<
br />
  ‘Ay. The colonel wants me back early, it seems. There are things to do in Wiltshire first.’

  Strickland raised an eyebrow and half smiled. ‘The major general’s inspection?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a to-do that is. You’ve heard about the muddle I suppose?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘My serjeant-major had it from one of the clerks. It seems that the general wrote months ago to say he wanted to see the regiment before the grass month. Someone failed to take note.’

  Hervey frowned. ‘Then I should not like to be who it was that failed.’

  Strickland smiled, but thinly. ‘I mean, it lay on the colonel’s desk for an inordinate time.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hervey, cast even lower by the intelligence. ‘Had I known that but a half-hour ago I should not have pressed the adjutant on it.’

  Strickland smiled again. ‘I shouldn’t trouble yourself on that account. Dauntsey is so terrified of Towcester that he couldn’t bring himself to press him to an order. Nor had he the wit to issue even a preliminary one of his own. He deserved whatever he got.’

  ‘Then heaven preserve us if ever we have to turn out on some alarm!’

  ‘Ay, just so,’ nodded Strickland solemnly. ‘I’m glad you’re come back, Hervey.’

  Hervey felt the sentiment a shade awkwardly. ‘I’m glad you should say so.’

  ‘But I believe I must tell you I’m thinking of exchanging,’ added Strickland sheepishly.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Hervey spoke with feeling, for though they had not served together long, they had at least shared a campaign. He wondered if he might soon have any kindred spirits of the old Sixth to serve with. ‘Do you have to? It won’t be easy to exchange now, unless you’re prepared to go to a regiment warned for India. A troop is hard to come by as things stand, what with disbandments and so on.’